


one thousand and one

by soulas



Category: Buzzfeed: Worth It (Web Series)
Genre: Andrew POV, Angst, Death, Fluff, M/M, Pining, Reincarnation, Repression, Soulmates, and by different time periods i mean one or two in the 1800s and 2000s, and mostly in the 1900 decades, how many more, it's like a buffet of feelings, something between those two, standrew goes through different time periods, there's something of everything, very standrew-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-24 08:22:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17700830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulas/pseuds/soulas
Summary: There are one thousand and one streams flowing in one thousand different directions. One moves southward to bristling plains and dripping heat; one moves eastward to briny air and frozen hills. They travel to a thousand possibilities, in a thousand realities, with a thousand resolutions.But they all came from the same source.





	one thousand and one

**Author's Note:**

> my brain: for the love of god … please….. just…..less words..more periods….  
> me: hmm let’s add another dependent clause

**76**.

In one, they’re both stolen from the streets, taken into underground coliseums, beaten and whipped and worked until they’ve learned to bite. Force-fed cheap cuts of meat to pack muscle onto calves and arms; force-fed raw violence to train the flinch out of them. Shaved down, oiled up, sent spinning into screaming crowds who haven’t fully sated themselves on the war-lust the country is constantly basking in. They form an uneasy alliance at the beginning, mostly made up of the fact that they share a blanket and a weight class, so the chances of one bludgeoning the hell out of the other is slim to none. Steven is constantly running a hand over his uneven hair, sloppily buzzed right down to the scalp, and for some reason Andrew can’t look away from the exposed tight stretch of skin at his abdomen. Before Andrew’s first match, he’s so terrified he grasps at any comfort and one thing leads to another, and eventually everyone else knows you don’t touch the ones in cell 34 because they belong to one another. When they’re eventually caught, embarrassedly red-handed, they’re not killed or beaten, as expected. It’s much worst. It’s a different kind of entertainment, one that runs in perfumed coterie rather than coliseums, one that requires a different form of brute force which pays just as well. Their captors are always ready to capitalize. Andrew thinks he’ll never speak again the way he’s screamed his throat hoarse down the hall Steven’s dragged.

 

**1327.**

In one, their first meeting is cautious, political, stilted. The prince and the ambassador. The prince watches the foreign man in their court warily, and the ambassador is very aware of his distance from England, how helplessly at the command of the cool, quiet prince he is. They take chaperoned walks in the water lily gardens and drink tea that’s been tested for poison and carefully discuss matters of government that linger on the line of being productive. It’s all going well until one day when they’re in the prince’s quarters, not the gardens, and they drink aged wine, not tea, and they talk about matters of the body, not of the state, and by the time they’ve migrated from experimental kissing to parting silk robes to openly rutting on the luxurious couch, the prince’s guards are flushed red themselves and mutter servants’ gossip to one another. The rumors double and triple and swell to be a story so scandalous and erotic that the two would never have guessed it encircled their coupling, and when the news returns to the Empress, the ambassador is dragged, panting and dark with shame, from the arms of the prince, and ordered to death. It wasn’t a love story, the court ladies murmur behind their trailing sleeves, it was a tragedy. It was both, a guard corrects softly as they linger, uneasily, outside the prince’s chambers, listening to the keening sounds of a newly broken heart. 

 

**1505.**

In one, Andrew dreams of pure marble, a warm stiffness that gathers in the back of his neck after he’s been working on a particularly well-formed forearm, fame that could rival Donatello or Bernini or god, even Michelangelo. He dreams of spirited youths in tunics that skim the thigh, angels with wings come to save, lean muscle flexing as a hand neatly notches a bow. His master had said that he wanted to change their lessons, give Andrew more creative freedom, more inspiration, so he isn’t too surprised that there’s a new boy modeling for his work, suitably fine-boned and uncomplicated with adornments like clothing. On his break, the model methodically pulls the offered robe around his body, produces a pink peach from his lunch-sack, and thoughtfully picks through a scroll he had brought with him. Andrew works too hard to take breaks, but there’s something about the way the window frames the boy, peach juice dripping off his chin, strong fingers intently running under the words he’s reading. It makes Andrew wish he were as talented a painter, or that he could sculpt in color. The way the balmy sunlight blurs the outlines of his curves. That night, he dreams of lush gardens, a mouth soft as bruised fruit, a hand carelessly resting between bare legs. 

 

**1797.**

In one, they share a stiff bed with springs that creak and a mattress that rubs friction against Steven’s belly. Early dawn sees pale yellow sunbeams quietly dappling his back, a rhythm of honeyed skin and light shadows flitting in the dips of his spine. Andrew lazily draws his hand down Steven’s back, the sleep-warmed skin hot under his hands, and Steven stirs. Their legs are tangled in the thin sheets when Andrew kisses Steven, something messy and unhurried, something promising decadent, heady things. “Don’t leave me,” Andrew pleads into the hollow of Steven’s neck, and Steven exhales something like a laugh (or a sob), and just winds his arms tighter around Andrew’s neck. Andrew rolls them over, brackets Steven against the bed, kisses him until their mouths are both cherry red, swollen, and he makes himself think about how this is the last time they can do this, the last morning they have before Steven’s parents pack him off to the States to “cure” whatever feeble enchantment Andrew has supposedly cast over him. Andrew kisses him again, revels in the way Steven is flushed all the way up to his chest; lowers his hand, rubs it in the heat of them. Steven shakes, all tangled hair, low cries, mounting gasps, his hands raking despair in sharp movements over Andrew’s back. “Don’t forget,” he whispers fiercely between pants, and Andrew buries his face to hide his tears. After they’ve finished and cleaned up, Andrew takes Steven’s face into his hands and burns this memory into his mind, thumbs Steven’s forehead to erase the sadness lying there, kisses him one last time, chaste and sweet. Watches him rearrange his clothes, walk out of his room. “ _You know I won’t_.”

 

**1880.**

In one, Andrew only knows him as the man with strawberry jam stains on his mouth and his neck, the kiss marks barely visible above his tight cravat. The man with a secretive smile and plummy cakes and over-protective lover. He hears them when they’re coming back from their trysts because they always pass his apartment, and he’s always at home on a Saturday (or Monday or Thursday or Sunday) night. He hears laughter and bold smacks and one time he’ll never forget, a thud against his door and a soft moan before whispered protests hurried them back to a more private setting. He’s not jealous as much as he is curious what it’s like to have that kind of thoughtless, giddy romance. And then one day, it all stops. The only footsteps he hears going past his door are shuffling and the only laughter he hear comes from the theater, and it’s a week and then two weeks, and then a month, and Andrew finds himself waiting for the giggling and the hushed secrets and the fond compliments to return, but they never do. He walks to his front door, backs away. Walks back to it. Turns the handle and goes to the apartment right above the sweetly smelling baker’s shop. He straightens his waistcoat, quickly buffs his hair back smoothly, and knocks. He knocks for five minutes straight, can hear the muffled sniffs coming from inside and the pointed ignorance. Come on, he thinks quietly. I haven’t heard you laugh in months.

 

**1922.**

In one, they meet in a secret pocket of society, something dark and dusty and soundtracked by a warm-voiced woman by the piano. There’s the lingerings of passwords on Andrew’s lips along with the steady burn of alcohol, and when he looks across the forbidden bar his breath catches in his throat. He thinks the last thing he can do is speak easy. The man who caught his eye is leaning easily against the bar and talking something breezy with the bartender, slim fingers tapping absent-mindedly at the glass in front of him. Andrew’s always considered these kind of thoughts in the abstract—an open mind and an appreciative eye. But there’s nothing abstract about the way he’s suddenly filled with the desire to stalk across the bar and push his tongue into the other man’s mouth. It’s so strong it frightens him, and he has to tear his glance away, order another drink, and then almost spits it out when the man wanders over to chat with him, lays an exploratory hand on his shoulder, pulls teasingly at his knotted tie. Later, in a room punctuated only with their short breaths, Steven will push his fingers into Andrew’s open mouth, and say, “I’ve wanted to do that since day one.” Close enough, Andrew thinks.

 

**1957.**

In one, they’re both tidy little businessmen in their tidy little suburban houses with tidy little bushes flanking their doors. They shake hands when they meet and smile broadly at one another from across the road. “Andrew Ilnyckyj is a good man,” Steven will say. “Steven Lim, a fine neighbor,” Andrew will say. And that’s all it is. At night, Andrew purposely doesn’t think about Steven watering his plants in that white tank top as he spills over his fist, and Steven purposely doesn’t think about Andrew lifting those bags of soil when he wakes up to dirty blankets, and they both tread around the other so carefully you would have thought there was a glass sheet separating them. They walk across the street from each other and smile with tightly pressed lips. Andrew doesn’t look out the front window that faces Steven’s house, and Steven buys a sprinkler for his roses so he doesn’t have to go outside on the weekends when Andrew repots his gardenias. They both walk with brisk steps, sharp eyes, and pull new sheets over their beds. 

 

**1981.**

In one, they’re touching hands, oh so subtly, just the faintest brush of fingertips, and he can taste his heartbeat in his mouth he’s so worried. The oppressive beeping of the machines has long since driven its incessant pulses into his mind, and all he wants is for the doctor to say those words—“Everything will be alright. He’s okay; it was a small scare.” But for now all they can do it wait, walking on needles and choking on IV tape until Andrew’s eyes carry heavy bruises. They can’t even tell their family about this; Steven’s family doesn’t know about his leanings and Andrew’s family doesn’t even know Steven exists. They live in this fantasy middle ground, along with thousands of other men and women in San Fransisco. They watch the news and see politicians talk about nature’s revenge on the homosexuals, and try not to give up hope completely. He thinks about how their love has been spelled out in paperwork: “Emergency Contact - Andrew Ilnyckyj, roommate”; thinks that if there’s a funeral, what their parents would say. What they would allow him to say. 

 

**1998.**

In one, they’re coworkers bored out of their minds at a summer cornfield maze that lost out to competition years ago but still sticks around because of sentiment. They run through all discussions of shared interests and next year’s collegiate plans before they decide there could be worse things than making out in a pile of haystacks. And really, it’s just two random people, agreeable enough not to mind and horny enough to want it badly. A quick summer thing because next semester Andrew’s going north and Steven’s going west, and there’s nothing bittersweet about it because there was never anything sweet to begin with. No lovely words murmured in each other’s ear, just a quick direction, a gentle suggestion, a hastily bit-off groan as the two explore their limits of exhibitionism. They laugh at the damage done to the poor haystacks, and Steven learns all sorts of dirty slang for next year. They part with a hearty pat-down, a hard kiss, and no regrets. Maybe in a couple of years, a high school reunion perhaps, they’ll reconnect and laugh about their time in the summer maze, stupid teenage lust that managed to get away with it. They’ll admit after hours of talking, sleep tugging at their eyelids, that neither of them have ever had a proper, long-term relationship. They’ll share a tipsy kiss and not talk about it for days. It’ll talk months of build-up and tension and minor resentments at brief external romantic flings before they admit to one other that maybe a dumb decision made at eighteen in sweaty gym shorts could be a good thing after all.

 

**2004.**

In one, he sits across the classroom and stares, stares until Adam flicks an eraser at him, irritated. Andrew flinches and scowls at his friend before shyly sneaking another glance. Steven Lim has a pink mouth softened by the continual workings around the lollipop he has stuck between shiny lips every day at lunch and it’s currently worrying itself around an unfortunate pencil, gentle bite marks along the yellow wood and dear _lord_ , Andrew can’t believe he’s jealous of a pencil right now. After class, Steven will drop something innocuous and Andrew will deny how fast he goes to the ground to hand it to him because he’s not _that_ determined to admit how whipped he is. Steven will thank him and the next day, wave his signature lollipop at Andrew at the dining hall, tongue rubbed red and obvious when he opens his mouth to say hello. Andrew goes home and covers his face with his pillow and tries desperately not to think about the things he’s seen that tongue do. And when Steven finally presses their lips together, Andrew tastes those damn lollipops and promises to never malign them again as he licks his way into Steven’s candy-sweetened mouth. 

 

**2010.**

In one, it’s another bar, but this one accented with dim lights, alternating red orange yellow green blue indigo violet, a non-subtle calling card. An arm heavy with drink finds its way across his shoulders, and the man takes a squint at him before realizing his mistake and wondering off to find his real target, the tight shirt and outrageous leather pants hinting at his profession, and the red thread knotted around his throat confirming it. Andrew watches him go with something more than a disinterested farewell glance and the bartender says, “Not that one, Ilnyckyj. Find another fuck.” And Andrew would be more than happy to comply, but they keep meeting. And again. And again. And he gets to know Steven Lim, and even gets to know his shitty regular customers—the obnoxious frat kid so far up his own ass he can’t see how deep in the closet he’s sunk himself, the nervous tall man with large hands, the guy Steven mistook him for that first night. He learns about their weird habits and their preferences and Steven gets drunk and cries about how he’s fallen for a guy with a healthy obsession of making them breakfast every morning, and how nothing will ever happen because the guy’s married and also not interested. And Andrew will shoulder it, he’ll fucking take it, because this is it. This is all he can ever be; he promised himself he’d never be another number to Steven, another quick shot of whiskey before heading off in a stranger’s car. He repeats it to himself like a prayer until their cheeks are both flushed with something not quite alcoholic and he looks down and has Steven Lim pinned to the sheets, a carefully negotiated set of rules between them and a wrecked friendship waiting in the future.

 

**2016.**

In one, they meet on a soggy day in November with shitty company sandwiches and unbranded soda even though they rake in more money than a goddamn media company should even consider decent. Andrew barely notices him among all the new interns, still scrubbed shiny and happy, still with their duckling fluff hair and their goddamn gee-golly-gosh can-do attitude. It’s all so naive he wants to puke. And Steven Lim might be the worse of them all, looking like a puppy with those wide, bright eyes. Andrew tries to ignore him because he’s learned early on not to get entangled with those people—middling cast members with just a hint of enough awkwardness to never truly reach the levels of Keith and the like. But they keep getting cast in the same videos, and people seem to subconsciously like their pairing, so it doesn’t come as a surprise to him when Steven wheedles over to his desk after Keith had to leave Steven’s baby show, still in the pitch stage really, already reeling with a quick cast cut and lack of structure. “No,” he says, “I have too much work.” He’s prepared himself for those sad eyes, the disappointment in Steven’s voice when he says, “Yeah, okay, of course, man. Sorry to bother you.” And he can feel Adam’s eyes on him when he sighs and says, “No, wait. Come back. I’ll do your stupid expensive gold-eating show with you. But we’re getting pizza for the first episode.” He doesn’t think about how Steven’s eyes light up, about how he made them light up. That’s a crisis for another day, in Japan maybe, after he’s allowed himself to get attached and remembered too late that Steven was a walking red flag, something to be avoided at all costs. 

 

**xxxx.**

In many, they barely brush by the other’s existence. A hot cup of coffee between them, Andrew letting his hand linger a touch too long when he hands over his credit card. A neighboring cabin room on a family cruise ship, where they keep passing the other in the hall, not allowing themselves anything more than polite, obligatory smiles. A quick kiss on New Year’s because they happened to be standing next to each other, the sting of snow on their faces. A friend of a friend of a friend that almost hooked up one time because of some miscommunication that was sorted out too early and stopped an inane plot to get them both laid. A groan and a sigh as they both perish on an abandoned field, the soldiers and bullets having travelled uphill hours ago, leaving behind the forgotten and fallen. A staccato of heartbeats when Andrew hands back the papers on the last day of his TA class and the student gives him the brightest smile he’s seen outside a Disney movie. A passing thought of, “Fuck, he’s hot,” on the morning subway before they both part ways at different stations. A stood-up date. A missed opportunity. A one night stand. A shy avoidance. A bittersweet first crush. A play of fate. 

 

**∞.**

In one, they play and wish and woo and marry, and enjoy a full life of friends and happiness, and finally pass from one world into the next between mere hours of each other because one could never have survived long without the other. 

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](https://sovnly.tumblr.com/)


End file.
